In the Speed of Light
by zumanity57
Summary: [Complete] Lightning has been with the newsies forever, it seems. When she is kidnapped, who should try to save her but her evil archnemesis, the king of Brooklyn himself.
1. Transgression

Chapter 1

"Conlon!" I screeched.

Spot Conlon was asleep, propped up against the wall of an apothecary. At my shout, he jerked awake.

"Wha-a?" he asked stupidly, his eyes still half-shut.

"You sneak! What the hell are youse doin' heah?"

"Wha-a?"

"Now don't go givin' me dat crap. What are youse doin' in Manhattan?"

"Wha-a?"

"Jeez, Conlon, is that all youse can say? Foah da last time, what is your ass doin' on this side o' da bridge? An' if youse say "waa" again, I am gonna boot youse righ' back ta Brooklyn."

"Wha-a?"

I grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet roughly. "I'm warnin' youse, Conlon."

"Okay, okay!" The sudden move to an upright position had woken him up a little more. "What were ya hollerin' about now, Manhattan?"

"Youse!" I exploded, startling him a little. "What the hell were youse doin' in Manhattan?"

"Who cares?" Spot said indifferently. "It's a free country. Ise can go wheresever Ise wants ta."

"Tha's total bs, Conlon. How come none o' my newsies can even look a' your borough, an' youse can come an' snooze on the sidewalk in mine?" I demanded.

"Because, Manhattan, the king of Brooklyn has certain privileges not granted to lowly leaders of boroughs," Spot said, with a snobbish air.

"WHAT?!?!" I yelled, so that several passersby stopped to stare. "Youse ain't bettah den any o' my newsies, o' me foah dat mattah. In fac', I am willin' ta bet dey are tons bettah den youse, cuz dey ain't as conceited!"

"I ain't conceited," Spot snarled. "Ise jus' da king."

"No, youse ain't."

"Am too."

"No, youse ain't da king o' nowhere, youse are conceited and self-centered and if ya contradict me, yer ass is gonna be hurtin' somethin' terrible in a few seconds." My tone had a note of finality, but Spot wasn't leaving it at that.

"I AM the king o' Brooklyn, an' Ise the best dat evah was. Everyone's undah my command, includin' youse."

"An' what if I don't wanna be ruled by a snob li' youse?"

"Well, then Ise'll make ya."

"I'd like ta see ya try."

"Ise won't just try, Manhattan, Ise will."

But before he could even take a swing at me, my fist connected with his eye. Now, I only meant to give him a nice big black and blue eye, but I underestimated my own strength. The force of my punch sent him reeling backwards into the shop window of the apothecary, where, most unfortunately for him, there was a large shelf displaying various strange concoctions to cure foot warts and stuff like that. With a huge crash, the window shattered and he fell onto the shelf, causing an assortment of jars to come smashing down onto the ground, covering him and his surroundings with gooey substances. But the best part of all was the look on his face. It was a mixture of disgust and embarrassment and confusion and discomfort. I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help it. I started giggling madly. The look on Spot's face turned to one of anger.

"Shut up Manhattan," he snarled. "It ain't funny."

This, of course, only made me laugh harder. Spot made a growling noise deep in his throat and made to stand up, but slipped and fell straight on his behind. The movement caused something green and slimy to fall off his hat onto his once brown pants. I was now almost collapsing from laughing so hard. Spot, however, was not amused. In one fluid movement, he reached up, grabbed my wrist and pulled me down into the goo next to him. I stopped laughing immediately.

"Aw, dammit, Conlon!" I said angrily. There was guck all over my hands and clothes, and my hat had fallen off so my hair was all over my face. Plus, by now quite a crowd of spectators had gathered, including the owner of the apothecary, who was almost beside himself with fury at the mess we had made of his store. For a little man, he sure could holler.

"HOODLUMS!" he screeched. "I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU AND YOUR ANTICS! COMING ROUND HERE, FORCING ME TO BUY SMELLY OL' NEWSPAPERS EVERY SINGLE STINKIN' DAY, SCARING AWAY ALL MY CUSTOMERS AND NOW YOU DESTROY MY BEAUTIFUL SHOP! I'VE HAD IT! OUT! AWAY! BEGONE WITH YOU! GOOD RIDDANCE! NEVER DARKEN MY DOORSTEP AGAIN!"

While this furious tirade was going on, Spot and I had managed to scramble to our feet. I knew we probably didn't look very impressive; the goo was drying and forming a crusty coat all over me, and I could feel a hard streak on my face where I had brushed my hair out of my eyes, and Spot didn't look much better.

"YOU HEARD ME! GET OUT! SCRAM! BEGONE!" Waving his hands around he tried to shoo us away, but neither of us moved. We each fixed the owner with an identical cold stare. A bit creeped out by the lack of emotion on either of our faces, the owner backed off, a faint look of fright in his eyes. Spot took a step forward, his stare growing colder.

"Youse don't need ta make us," he hissed in a voice as cold as his stare. "We can go by ourselves."

Matching his tone, I added, "We ain't as stupid as ya think."

The owner's bravery came back, and he sneered, but before he could say anything more, Spot had brushed past him and was heading down the sidewalk. I followed suit. A block away I looked back, and there was the owner, staring after us, his mouth half-open, while the spectators around him were gabbing excitedly about what had just happened.


	2. Frustration and Secrets

Chapter 2

At the next street corner, I turned right, with the intention of heading back to the lodging house to clean up. Most unfortunately, Spot followed me.

"Manhattan, why didja hafta push me?" he whined.

"Because, dolt, youse was bein' an arrogant jerk, dat's why. So Ise gave ya a reality check."

"Well, don't evah do it again, ya heah? Nevah!"

With a devilish smirk, I glanced at him.

"Did it hoit, Conlon?"

"WHAT?!? O' course not, what do ya think I am, a scab?" he said indignantly, a little too loudly. I didn't reply; I just widened my smirk.

"Oh, come off it, Manhattan, a goil can't hoit da king o' Brooklyn, it jus' ain't possible." He paused. "Bu' nevah do it again, ya heah? It's gonna take forevah ta get this crap outta my hair."

I snickered. "Right."

He frowned. "I don't like your tone."

"Oh, what the hell, Conlon? What do youse care about my tone? Are youse my muddah o' sumpthin'?"

"Heck no!"

"Then knock it off!"

"Ha!"

He turned and started walking away again.

"Hey, Conlon! Wait right there one second, mistah, I ain't thru with youse."

"What?" He turned around with an exasperated look on his face. "One second youse is yellin' a' me and the other youse is punchin' me and now youse wants ta yell a' me again? Make up yer mind, Manhattan."

"I'll make this quick then," I said sarcastically. "Ise nevah got an ansah outta youse. What were youse doin' in Manhattan?"

Spot appeared to be thinking it over. Finally he shrugged.

"Dunno."

"So youse just randomly walked across a two-mile bridge to do nothin'?"

He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"Yeah, sounds about righ'."

"Yer impossible, Conlon."

He grinned mischievously at me. But before he could make any smart remark, he spotted (haha, spotted, get it? spot, spotted, hahaha, k, done now...ahem) someone ever my shoulder.

"Race! Hey, Race!"

"Hey, Spot, how's it goin'?" Racetrack Higgins came jogging over, a pile of papes under his arm and a lit cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes widened. "Whoa, am I seein' things? Light, is that actually you walkin' with Spot...intentionally?"

"Aw, shut it, Race," I grumbled, as he and Spot snickered. I yawned hugely, not bothering to cover my mouth and started walking again. All I really wanted to do was get cleaned up and then crash for the night. Race and Spot followed about five steps behind, bantering back and forth about something or another, laughing occasionally. I didn't really pay any attention; my mind was focused on my nice warm bed at the lodging house, but then Spot said something that I couldn't ignore.

"So, Race, is everything ready?"

I heard a frantic scuffling noise, then Race hissed, "Not so loud, bonehead, she'll heah youse!"

I spun around. Race had hold of Spot's right ear, but as soon as he noticed me looking at them, he let go and tried to look innocent by pasting a huge, overly cheery smile on his face. Spot did the same. I glanced from one to the other with one eyebrow raised quizzically, but when I realized that they weren't going to explain, I shrugged and resumed walking, every so often giving them questioning looks over my shoulder. We neared the lodging house, and surprisingly, Spot followed Race inside. I was not having any of this. Pulling Race aside I hissed into his ear.

"Youse so did not invite da Brooklynites to spend the night."

Race looked uncomfortable.

"Uh, kinda?"

"Dammit Race, youse know I don't like havin' dem heah!"

"Ise know, Ise know, bu' it's jus' Spot, no' all o' dem."

I gave him a dirty look. "It's still Spot though."

"It's okay, Light, I'll keep him in line, don't worry, he won't bug youse."

I looked at him, not trusting him one bit.

"Honestly!" he said. "Here, I'll shake on it."

I gave in. "Fine."

We shook hands. With that all done, I headed upstairs, cleaned up, and tumbled into bed, where I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.


	3. More Secrets

**K, guys, because this chappie's so unbelievably short, you get Chappie 4 as well! Yay! Enjoy and review!**

Chapter 3

In the morning I was one of the first ones to roll out of bed. All of the boys kept snoozing, even Spot, until Kloppman came up and shouted at them to get a move on or there would be no more papes left at the distribution center. Moaning and grumbling, the boys slowly rolled out of bed, just as I was heading out the door.

"Morning, boys!" I sang out as I thundered down the stairs. I was in a terrific mood. I stepped outside, breathing in the slightly smoggy air of NYC. I loved mornings like this, the sunny optimistic ones. I grinned as I set off down the street in the direction of the distribution center, remembering the Spot incident of the day before, but cursing the slime that had dried in my hair. Even though I had washed it, my scalp still felt crusty.

I was the toughest newsie in Manhattan. I was the one who had gotten rid of Oscar and Morris Delancy – for good. When I was ten, I had stolen some bull's horse when he turned his back for one second to tape a "Wanted" sign to a post. That's when they started calling me Lightning. I was small and fast, and when I wanted to, I could inflict major pain. Spot was just too big-headed to see that instead of him breaking my heart like he did to every other girl he laid eyes on, _I _was breaking _his_ reputation.

When I reached the distribution center, it was deserted. Surprise, surprise. It was only 6:15, according to my silver pocket watch that I had nicked off a scabber after I had knocked him out cold for picking on Tidbit, one of the younger newsies. I had fifteen minutes before anyone else would even think of heading to the distribution center, so I plopped down on the curb, dug out a cigarette and match, and settled in for a good smoke. I had been sitting there for about twenty minutes, casually blowing smoke everywhere and lazily watching the odd person scurry by, when a bunch of newsies appeared, coming from the lodging house.

"Heya, Light, how in da woild do ya get down heah so damn eoily?" Racetrack slumped down next to me with a huge yawn. Mush, Specs, Skittery and Dutchy followed suit.

I smiled sweetly. "'Cuz, genius, I don't stay up til odd hours of da night wilin' away all me dough."

"Uh, Light, speakin' o' dough – "

"No, I'm not lendin' ya no more, ya heah? Jeez, Race, youse really gots ta start communicating wit dat hoise." I got to my feet, ground out my cigarette in a nearby knothole and stepped up to the now-open distribution window to buy my papes. Race glared at me, then glanced at Mush, who reluctantly popped him two bits. I collected my usual 100 papes, and headed off in the direction of Central Park. There is another reason for my name. Lightning always comes first. The thunder is always a few steps behind.


	4. The Plot Thickens

Chapter 4

I had sold six papes by the time Race caught up with me, thanks to a good headline on the second page and Race's unbearable lack of speed. He had a cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth, which amazingly stayed put as he opened his mouth and started babbling away.

"Lightning, Ise forgots ta tell ya. Dere's a party at Medda's tonight! Everyone's gonna be dere. It's gonna be da best party of da year!"

I gave him a patronizing look. "Race, if I recall correctly, we ain't had any oddah parties dis year."

"Sure, but it's still gonna be great. Medda's gonna sing a couple songs, and dere's gonna be lotsa dough ta be won." He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"Well, Race, count me in. But why dincha tell me soonah? Den I coulda started savin' some o' my pennies."

"Sorry. But we knew youse had a lot on your mind, what with Spot hangin' around and all. Anyways, everyone's plannin' on bein' dere at eight. Sound good ta youse?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay."

I turned to leave, but Race called me back.

"An' Light?"

"Yeah, Race?"

"Don't be eoily."

"Huh?"

"Jus' whatevah ya do, foah once in your life, don't be eoily."

I looked at him questioningly, but he just grinned and hightailed it out of the park in pursue of a potential customer. I was beyond confused. I had heard many a weird statement from Race, but that was by far the weirdest. The cigars must be getting to his head, I thought.

The day passed quickly, and by the time I had finished selling all my papes it was about five o' clock. I wandered down the streets of Manhattan, waving a greeting to Mush, who was selling a pape to an old lady. I turned a corner, with the vague intention of heading over to Tibby's for a bite to eat before the party, and I ran into someone. With a twinkle of gold and a flash of steely blue I was knocked into the street in the path of an oncoming horse and buggy. Thankfully, I managed to roll out of the way in the nick of time, and as the buggy clattered past, I turned around and came face to face with Mr. Brooklyn himself.

"You'se'll want ta be moah cayeful, Manhattan, if, youse is wanting ta make it ta da party in one piece." His signature smirk slid onto his face. I groaned inwardly. Curse you Race, for telling the Brooklynites about the party. My disgust must have shown on my face because Spot's smirk got even wider.

"Ah, don't worry, Manhattan. We're gonna be on our best behavior. Wouldn't want ta ruin dis party."

I rolled my eyes. If I had thought Race had said something weird, Spot had said something insane. Since when did Spot Conlon attend a party without any intention of causing a ruckus? I got to my feet and brushed past him. I could feel his eyes following me as I walked away. He knew he had bewildered me, even if it didn't show on my face. That was one of the many things I hated about Spot. He could read minds.

I pushed open the door to Tibby's restaurant, expecting to hear the familiar 'Heya, Light! Hows 'bout a game a pokah?' or 'Lightning, can ya please do somethin' 'bout Goober? He's at his nose-pickin' again!' or simply 'How's it goin'?' from various newsies. But there was no one there except a couple of old guys playing chess in the corner. I frowned. Usually this place was packed. This day was getting stranger and stranger.

I left Tibby's, even more puzzled at the significant lack of newsies. Where in the bloomin' woild was everybody? I walked down to the docks, even though I knew no one would be there because Pie Eater (of all people) hates the smell of fish. I sat on the edge of the dock, kicking my bare feet in the water until the sun went down and I started to shiver. I headed back to the lodging house to get ready for the party.

**Ah, okay, this one isn't exactly the longest in the woild either, but live w/ it!**


	5. Fruitless Questioning

**'ello, hope you guys are enjoying the story, and reviewing! This chappie is really short, I know, but I wanted a cliffhanger…in a way…read and find out!**

Chapter 5

The lodging house was eerily silent. No one was there. The only sounds were the faint scratching of Kloppman's pen on the ledger. Thinking he would know where everyone was, I bombarded him with questions.

"Kloppman, where is everyone?"

"Dunno."

"No one told ya where dey were goin' taday?"

"Uh."

"Youse must have some ideas."

"Shoah."

"Care ta share 'em?"

"Nah."

"Aw, Kloppman! C'mon, I really need ta know!"

"Ise undah strict ordahs ta not divulge any important information."

"Who told ya ta keep yoah mouth shut?"

"Not tellin'."

"Was it Race?"

"Not tellin'."

"Mush?"

"Not tellin'."

"ARGH! Foah cryin' out loud, Kloppman! I am da leadah of da Manhattan newsies. Youse can tell me!"

"I know who ya are."

"I promise I won't blab an' say ya blabbed."

"Nope. Still not tellin'."

"Kloppman, don't make me hoit ya."

"Go ahead. I'se'll jus' throw ya outa da lodgin' house."

That put an end to my fruitless questioning. Heaving heavy sighs and shooting dirty looks at Kloppman, I headed upstairs to the still bunkroom. I laughed to myself. At least I wouldn't have to wait for Race to get out of the shower or worry about being seen by anyone.

Half an hour later, I was ready to leave. I had managed to find my favorite pair of black pants and my nice dark green shirt, and luckily, they were clean. I left my dark hair loose and flowing, but under control thanks to my black newsboy hat. The only jewelry I wore was my four-leaf clover necklace and my silver pocket watch. I pulled on my boots and headed to Medda's.

**Shoutouts:**

**You know, it is kinda really sad that six out of seven of my reviews are from people I know. So people, please review even if it's just to say "I read your story!" Cuz that means alot to me! Thanx!**

**blitz: hehe, that would be funny...but no, fortunately. Jack decided that NYC wasn't good enough for him, and headed off to Santa Fe. He might, just _might_ come back later, but I don't know yet, that chappie hasn't written itself yet. keep reading!**

**Smileycad: Girl, you have got to get back to school soon or otherwise your senior quote will be something along the lines of "I really don't feel well...I'm going home...hold the tests" but don't worry, you didn't miss anything of any importance. Except there's this notice on Mooney's board about a Peter Pan production and we were thinking we'd make an 8GM outing out of it...you'll have to see the sheet.**

**chatty291: you didn't like spot?!?! are you off your rocker?!?!?**


	6. Surprise!

**Just to make one thing clear, I don't know if I mentioned it before, but Jack has gone to Santa Fe. He just wanted to see what it was like, and I don't know if he'll be back in this story, but I am seriously considering it. Anyhow, on with the chappie...**

Chapter 6

"SURPRISE!"

I was nearly blown off my feet the minute I walked through the door. There were birthday decorations everywhere: balloons

and streamers and a huge banner that said 'Happy 20th Birthday, Lightning!'. It seemed like every newsie in New York was

sitting at the many tables scattered around the room. I grinned widely. Those rascals. Mush, Race and Blink sat at the table

nearest to the stage, goofy smiles on their faces. I knew they were the masterminds behind this. I gave each of them

afriendlythump on the head in gratitude, and then I was pushed into a chair and presented with a mountain of small gifts:

marbles and poker cards and nickels and cigarettes. Then suddenly Crutchy appeared, holding a larger, wrapped gift. Inside

was a new pair of suspenders. I was speechless. Where in the world did they find enough money for all of this? They must

have been saving their pennies for weeks. No wonder Race had to ask me for money for papes so often. I sat there, feeling

so happy, and thinking how lucky I was to have such great friends. Then Medda came out, and she led everyone in singing

Happy Birthday to me while Blink brought out a cake covered in candles. I blew them all out in one breath, and everyone

applauded, and made snide remarks about how I had no significant other until they got their cake and were too busy stuffing

their faces to talk. After everyone had been served, I stood up on the stage and motioned for silence.

"I jus' wanna thank youse all foah comin' and celebratin' my birthday, and I am gonna make it up ta youse all somehow. But

foist, let's jus' have a good time!"

With all the cheering, I was surprised that the roof wasn't falling in. Medda came out again and started singing one of her

faster songs. Let me tell you, you should never ever give sugar to a hundred guys and then turn on some loud music. In fifteen

minutes, everyone was dancing, and not only on the dance floor. Someone found out that dancing on the tables was much

more fun, and so everything that had been on the tables in the first place ended up on the floor to make room for all the crazy

dancing. Me, I was right in the midst of all the chaos, whooping and yelling like a maniac with the best of them.

An hour later, most of the sugar had worn off and I collapsed into a chair next to Mush, who was having a heated argument

with Blink about whether Jack or Davey had influenced the strike more. The room was unbearably warm. I fanned myself

with my hand. It didn't help at all. I was thinking about heading outside for some air when Race came over.

"Hey, Light, pooped already?"

"Naw, Race, Ise jus' gettin' warmed up."

"Well, we'se settin' up a pokah game, wanna play?"

"Shoah."

I stood up and stretched. Mush and Blink hadn't heard a word of our conversation, so I interrupted their discussion and

extended Race's invitation. They declined. Shaking my head, amazed that they'd rather talk about the strike than play poker,

I straightened up and turned to follow Race. But a cold, all-too-familiar voice from behind stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Aren'tcha gonna invite me?"

I spun around.

"Get lost, Brooklyn," I said through clenched teeth.

"Nice try, Manhattan, but I ain't goin' anywheres."

Smirking, he dropped into my now vacant chair, leaned back, propped his filthy boots up onto the table and closed his eyes.

"Do we needs ta take dis outside?"

Spot opened one dangerous blue eye.

"Are ya threatenin' da king, Manhattan?"

I snorted.

"'Da king', huh? Man, ya need a reality check."

The other dangerous eye popped wide open in shock. In an instant, he was standing up, his nose inches from mine, his eyes

livid. But before he could do anything, Mush and Blink appeared by my side. They had mercifully abandoned their strike

debate (for now). Other Manhattan newsies had noticed my situation and had left their conversations to help me. Spot knew

better than to tangle with all of us. Fuming, he sank back into his chair, but his former laziness was nowhere to be seen. The

look on his face was one of pure hatred. I gave him a smirk of my own and went to join the poker game.

**Thanks to my new reviewers:**

**Krystal: Thanks for the feedback. I wasn't really trying to make Spot that funny, but now that I look back on it, he does seem kind of comical. He gets more serious in later chapters, if I remember correctly. But I totally agree about him not letting Light boss him around so much. I guess it must be strange for him to have a girl as a rival. **

**Pancakes: Yay! Another reader! Thanks for letting me know you're reading!**

**To the rest of you...KEEP REVIEWING!**


	7. One Hell of A Game

Chapter 7

My troubles with Spot were just beginning. No sooner had I taken my place at the poker table, he had come and plunked himself down on the opposite side.

"Deal me in," he said menacingly.

The cards were dealt. Money was gambled. People folded. More money was gambled. Race folded. Spot and I were the only ones left. The pile of money rose higher still. I added a pack of cigarettes. Spot added three bottles of cheap beer. Then I had a brainstorm.

"I tell youse what Ise gonna do, Brooklyn. I'll make ya a lil' deal."

Spot raised an eyebrow.

"Loser has ta sell papes tomorra."

Spot's signature smirk slid onto his face for the millionth time that evening. "Duh, Manhattan. How's else'm I gonna make a livin'?"

"Jus' heah me ou', dung-for-brains. Loser has ta sell the winnah's papes as well as dere own. So's instead o' jus' a hundred, youse got ta sell twice dat many. An' ya don't get any o' da profits." I paused. Spot was frowning slightly. Ha, I thought. The 'king' is human! Out loud I added, "Dat makes two hundred."

Spot's frown turned into a full-fledged scowl.

"Ise knows how ta add, dingbat!" he snarled.

"Soo-rree!" I said. I turned to Race, who was right next to me and remarked loudly, "Some people are so touchy!", which sent Race guffawing into Squeaky's shoulder.

Spot stood up quickly, bumping the table in his fury so that our drinks were in danger of spilling. His eyes were like blue fire.

"Dat's it, Manhattan! I quit! Dere's no poin' in playin' if youse is gonna be smar'-alecky and unfair!"

"Yer funeral," I said dryly. "I guess I'll have a day off tomorra while youse sell me papes."

Spot clenched his fists and ground his teeth together. He stood there for about a minute glaring daggers at me as though he would like nothing more than to pound me to within an inch of my life, then throw me in the ocean and watch sharks eat what was left. But finally, realizing he had dug himself into a hole, he resumed his seat trying to muster his dignity, but failed dismally.

"So, do youse fold?" I asked coolly, as if nothing had happened.

"O'course not!" he retorted, insulted that I would even think that the great Spot Conlon would admit defeat to a girl. 'I hope yer prepared ta woik yer ass off tomorra, smarty. Straight – in diamonds." He laid down his cards with a smug look on his face, all hatred gone (for now…).

"Youse good, Conlon," I said, shaking my head slowly as if astonished. But then I smiled devilishly. "But, just not good enough."

Spot's smug look disappeared. A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows; he was worried.

I turned my cards over so the whole table could see. "In yer honah, yer highness, a royal flush." My voice dripped with sarcasm.

Spot's mouth fell open in shock. I had to fight to keep from laughing. The guys around us had gone deadly silent. Then Race guffawed loudly again, and the whole table erupted. Only Spot remained silent, staring in horror at me, while the others around him screeched and hooted and hollered and slapped him on the back. I gave him an angelic smile. So there, Mr. High and Mighty.

**A/N: The whole poker scenario is compliments of the writers of the Parent Trap with Lindsay Lohan, because I have no idea how to play poker whatsoever. Thank you!**

**Review!**

**Thanks Pancakes!**


	8. Wimp

**Thankyouthankyouthankyou Pancakes! This one's dedicated to you! Enjoy!**

"Whoo-hoo, Spot! She beatcha!"

"Not so high and mighty now, huh, Conlon?"

"Good luck tamarra, Brooklyn!"

Smiling slightly, I rose from my seat and made my way to the door. Newsies all around me were giving me congratulations and pats on the back. I wanted to get out of there before they got even more crazy, but halfway to the door Spot got over his shock and high-tailed it after me.

"Manhattan! Manhattan! Youse weren't serious 'bout dat sellin' thing, were ya?"

"Yeah, Conlon. Why?"

"Well…"

"Are ya backin' down?"

A hush fell over the newsies.

"Hell no."

"Den wat's da problem? Youse hoid me loud and cleah. Youse got ta sell me 'undred papes tamarra, as well as yer own, and youse give me da profits."

"Manhattan, dat ain' exactly fair –"

"Conlon, life ain't fair. Live wit it."

"Ya musta cheated."

I gave him a steely look. "I migh' not be fair, Brooklyn, but I don't cheat."

He sneered. "Righ'…"

I raised a fist threateningly. Knowing I would make a fool out of him again, he desisted. With a 'hmph' of exasperation, he accepted the fact that he would have to sell for me tomorrow and went back to the table. I turned on my heel and left the room.

"Sore loser."

Once outside I breathed a few deep breaths of the cool night air. Up until know I hadn't realized how stuffy it had been inside. I really didn't want to go back in and have to put up with Spot again, but I felt guilty about leaving my birthday celebration early. So I snuck around the back of the theatre and climbed the narrow fire escape, which led to my favorite place in the city: a relatively flat part of the roof, which over-looked the whole of Manhattan. There I sat, thinking about my friends and how lucky I was. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts I hardly noticed when Mush sat down next to me. I gave a deep sigh.

"Was dat a happy sigh o' a sad one?" he said. I could sense his grin through the darkness, and I smiled too.

"A very happy one."

I let out a huge yawn and lay back with my arms behind my head, looking up at the stars.

"It's almost eleven."

I couldn't see his face, but I could tell by his tone that all he wanted to do was go home and hit the sack, but didn't want to offend me by leaving.

"Yeah, I was jus' thinking' 'bout headin' home." I yawned again. I hadn't realized I was so tired.

Mush nodded. He looked out over the rooftops.

"It shoah is nice up heah," he remarked. "It's like a whole diff'rent city."

I didn't want to put a damper on his spirits by saying that it still smelt the same. Instead, I lifted my head and took a good look. It was, in a way, like a whole different city. An endless mass of rooftops spread in every direction, lit here and there by a candle or light in a window. A cool breeze picked up, tinted with the smell of the river. It promised discovery and new beginnings, sailors and huge ships. But with a heavy jolt, I was brought back to reality when the sounds of breaking glass, thumps and curses came from down between the buildings. I shivered, suddenly freezing cold. Mush put his arm around me and gave me a brotherly hug.

"C'mon, Light, it's getting late, youse had a big day."

He helped me off the roof and down the fire escape, keeping his arm around me the whole time. We made our way back to the lodging house slowly, but taking no time to dawdle. Mush's arm was a warm, comforting weight around my neck. We didn't talk much. There was no need to.

**Thanks to Noelani for reviewing, and I know, poor Spot. **


	9. Broken

There is one good thing about pumping a bunch of teenaged boys full of alcohol. Eventually, they get so drunk they have no idea where they are and then just keel over using the most unlikely things as pillows (goodness, I sound morbid. I must fix that…) The morning after the party, I found Race curled up in the shower, Blink was snoozing halfway under the couch downstairs and Specs Skittery, Dutchy and Boots were all piled in a corner of the common room. They were all dead to the world.

But not for long…If I had any say…

With strict orders to Kloppman to wake them up before seven (hey I was being generous! Kloppman usually wakes them up at six if I haven't already at five thirty) I left the lodging house. I was walking along, relishing the fact that I wouldn't have to sell today and would still have a meal that evening. I was lost in my thoughts, not really paying attention to my surroundings, when something came hurtling out of the alley I was passing and rammed into me.

With a yell, I fell sideways into the street, landing hard on my left arm. It didn't help that the thing landed on top of me. I was lying in the street, pain shooting up my left arm, with an unknown object on top of me, and suddenly, I was looking into a pair of startling blue eyes. I recognized them at once.

"Eeek! Conlon, get off o' me!" I screeched_. Oh man this is not a good position to be in, especially with **him…**_I tried to push him off, but he was too heavy and my arm killed. _Oh, why me? _

Spot shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it. Then he realized whom he was on top of.

"Holy shit!" he gasped, then thankfully rolled off of me. But unfortunately, he rolled right over top of my left arm. I yelped. With wide eyes, he surveyed my arm, which was at a very odd, unnatural angle.

"Jeez, Light, c'mon. We need ta get dat fixed."

He pulled me to my feet.

"C'mon!" he urged, trying to push me forward. I went reluctantly. Every step caused more pain. And I had a ton of questions. _Why was Spot in such a hurry? What had he been doing before he ran into me? Where is he taking me now?_

Wincing, I stumbled along; Spot was steering me around by my good arm.

_Where is he taking me?_

We weren't heading to any care place I knew of; in fact, we weren't even heading to anyplace in Manhattan. To my great dismay, the Brooklyn Bridge was suddenly looming up in front of us. I stopped dead. There was no way I was going to cross that bridge.

Spot growled low in his throat and gave me a sharp nudge. "Move, Manhattan."

"No."

"Foah once in your life, stop bein' so damn stubborn and move!"

"No, I ain't crossin' dat bridge!"

"Manhattan, it's a bridge. I ain't hoid of nobody dyin' a gruesome death because dey crosst a bridge."

"It ain't the bridge dat's da problem, Conlon, and youse know it."

He ground his teeth in frustration. It took a couple of seconds before he had enough control to speak rationally.

"Manhattan, as da king o' Brooklyn, I promise dat dere ain't nobody on da uddah side dat's gonna attack ya for comin' inta my territory."

"Are ya sure?"

"Yes! I'se the bloody leader of the Brooklyn newsies! Dey wouldn't attack dere own leader!"

I frowned, still wary about the whole situation.

"Manhattan, do ya really think dat dere would be an ambush waiting on da uddah side on da off-chance dat an EastEnder would cross da bridge?"

"Wouldn't put it past ya," I shot back.

"Manhattan, trust me on dis one. If ya don't cross dat bridge right now, youse is going to have to live wid a crippled arm foah da res' o' your life."

"What?" I gasped.

"Your arm!" he gestured at my injured arm. "It's broke! If ya don' fix it, it'll heal like dat and hoit forevah!"

"What about the care place in Manhattan?" I whined. "Can't we just go there?"

"No. Da doctah in Brooklyn's way bettah. Now are youse comin'?"

"Fine," I said sullenly.

"Ha!" he crowed triumphantly. "The mighty Spot Conlon wins again!"

"Shaddup," I muttered, striding towards the bridge at a fast pace to get away from him, the conceited arrogant jerk that he was.

"Hey!" Spot yelled, when he realized what was happening. "Hey, wait foah me!"

**Sorry for the long wait! The next chapter will be up sooner and be a bit longer!**


	10. Benoit

Chapter 10

I was forced to wait for Spot on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge on account of the fact that since I had hardly ever roamed the streets of Brooklyn, I had no idea where to go. I was attracting a lot of stares, with my scuffed up clothes and useless left arm hanging by my side, not to mention the fact that I was being pursued by and egotistical jerk. I tapped my foot impatiently as Spot rushed up, panting, his hair all over the place. Doubling over, he clutched his stomach, gasping for breath. After about five minutes, he managed to recover enough to straighten up and glare at me. I was trying desperately not to laugh, and failing miserably.

"That," he said. "was not funny."

"Are youse gonna be okay?" I asked, choking back a giggle.

"O'course!" he barked. He was still breathing rather heavily.

"Youse has da woist endourance I'se evah seen," I told him.

"Hey, I'se can't help it! It's a long bridge!" he huffed indignantly. He looked around confusedly, and for a moment, I thought we were lost, but then his face cleared and he turned to the left. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief and followed him down the winding street, biting my lip to distract myself from the pain in my arm. It would not have been good to be lost in Brooklyn, even in daylight.

After what seemed like hours, but was actually about fifteen minutes, Spot stopped in front of a small building in the heart of Brooklyn. It was a slightly run-down but clean doctor's office. And it would have looked more promising if there hadn't been a sign on the door that said "Closed." I gave Spot a dirty look.

"Da bes' doctah in Brooklyn's da one dat's closed, huh?"

"Shaddup, Manhattan. Don't talk abou' things youse don't undahstand." Ignoring the sign, he tapped out a complicated rhythm on the door. After a few seconds, we heard someone fumbling with the lock on the other side, and the door creaked open to reveal a round, kind-looking older man with bushy white hair and thick spectacles. When he saw Spot, his face split into a wide grin.

"Ah, Meester Conlon! It eez a pleayzure to see you agahn! Come een! Come een!" He opened the door and ushered us in.

"Hey, Benoit, how ya doin'?" Spot said in a voice I had never heard him use before. He had a genuine smile on his face and looked positively ecstatic to see the old man.

"Ay, can't complain," the old man grinned even more widely. "And 'oo eez zis lovely lass? She eez your guerlfriend, no?"

"I most certainly am not!" I said hotly, not caring about being rude. Spot just laughed.

"No, Benoit, she's a patient foah ya. 'N crazy ta boot."

"What?" I shrieked indignantly. Benoit burst out laughing – a deep, throaty chuckle that seemed to fill the whole room. I glared at Spot, who gave me a cocky grin.

"I'd hit ya," I growled through clenched teeth. "But I'd be riskin' injurin' my oddah arm and dat wouldn' be good."

Spot's cheeky grin widened, but Benoit cut in before he could answer.

"Oh, no, zat arm looks terreble. When deed zees 'appen?"

"'Bout an hour ago," Spot said. "We woulda come soonah, bu' it's kinda a long walk from Manhattan, and youse da bes' doctah in da city."

The old man looked embarrassed by the praise. "Sank you, Meester Conlon, but I don't know eef even my skeels weel be good enough for zees young lady."

I was horrified. The thought of having to struggle around with only one working arm was more than I could bear.

"Bu' I need dis arm!" I wailed. "It's a crucial par' o' me! It's my pape arm!"

Spot let out a snort of laughter at my dramatics. I glared at him again. Benoit gave me a hopeful smile.

"I weel do my best, miss," he said.

The next few hours were some of the longest in my life. After giving me a powder that was supposed to help ease the pain and swelling, and then some awful-tasting liquid that was supposed to calm my nerves, Benoit set to work fixing my arm. I had to lie completely still on an old wooden table, keeping everything immobile, while he took my arm and carefully maneuvered the bone back into place so it would heal properly, nice and straight. Needless to say, it was a very painful experience, despite the powder, and there were several instances where Spot was forced to physically hold me down to keep me from moving. When the bone was finally set, Benoit took some white gauzy cloth and wrapped around and around my arm, and then covered the whole thing with plaster. While we waited for it to harden, Benoit left to see another patient, leaving Spot and me alone in the room. Several minutes passed before I voiced something I had been thinking about all day.

"Why were ya runnin'? When ya knocked inta me an' all?"

"Oh, that? Um, it wasn't nothin' importan'," Spot said evasively.

"Really?" I asked him. "I think I deserve to know, since it was my arm dat broke 'n all."

"Well, I don't," Spot said rudely. "It really is none o' yer business."

"Actually, I think it is," I said, feeling my anger begin to heat up. Why was he so goddamn stubborn?

"No, it ain't."

"Spot Conlon, as leader of the Manhattan newsies, I demand to know why youse were runnin'!"

"I ain't tellin'."

"Conlon…" My eyes spit fire. I was majorly ticked off, and Spot was going to feel my wrath if he didn't spill anytime soon. Evidently he noticed the danger signs, because he threw up his hands in mock surrender.

"Fine, fine, youse win! Bu' don't ge' used ta it. If youse really must know, I was runnin' cuz Priscilla was angry at me foah some reason o' anuddah!"

I burst out laughing. "You ran from one o' your weekly goils?"

"Shaddup, Manhattan!"

I collapsed, laughing hysterically. At that very moment, Benoit came back to check on the cast.

"Alright, missy, you are free to go. But pleez, be vairy caireful wif zee cast! Do not get eet wet or do not smash eet! And do not run eento anee one else!"

I promised him I would be careful, and after paying him for his kindness, Spot and I left.

"I guess, Conlon, I guess I should thank ya foah your help taday, " I said awkwardly.

Spot grunted.

"I mean, youse saved my pape arm."

A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth.

"So, thanks," I finished.

A happy, not cocky, grin spread across his face. It was dazzling. It was like a different Spot. Not the self-centered, arrogant jerk he normally was, but someone else. A nice Spot. A Spot with a heart. And amazing blue eyes...

I did not just think that. The pain must have made me delusional. I need to go back to Benoit and get a sanity powder.

**Please review and tell me what you think!**


	11. Kingly Banter

"Manhattan, I need some help."

I looked up in surprise. Spot Conlon was standing in front of me, a stack of papes under his arm and an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

"What's dis? Da high and mighty Spot Conlon is askin' me, da lowly leaddah of Manhattan, foah help? Good Loid, hell musta frozen ovah."

"Manhattan, focus!" Spot growled.

"Relax, I'se just givin' youse a hard time. What's da mattah?"

"We'se been havin' some trubbal wid Queens lately. It ain't been nuttin' major, bu' I'se gettin' kinda worried."

"'Worried'? Is dat woid even in youse vocabulary?"

"Well, if it wasn't, I wouldn'ta just said it, would I've?" he replied angrily. "Anyways, of dey do get nasty, will youse help us?"

I considered his request. Queens was one tough borough. I really didn't want to risk the lives of any newsies, but if Queens unleashed their full force, what chance would Brooklyn have? Sure, they had some of the best shooters in the city, but Queens liked to play dirty – with switchblades. I wouldn't even let Spot Conlon (my worst enemy) face them alone. I stood up.

"Alright, Spot, we'll help ya. If Queens crosses da line, they'll have Manhattan ta ansah to."

"God help us all," Spot muttered under his breath. But he held out his hand anyway and we spit-shook.

"Well, I'm off," Spot stretched. "Places to go, people to see, trouble to be caused…"

"Have ya sold all me hundred papes yet?" I asked slyly.

He frowned. "Shaddup, Manhattan."

"Well, have ya?"

"Ya didn't specify when dey all had ta be sold by."

"Spooooot!" I whined.

"Manhattan, dat's a lot 'a papes ta sell in one day. I gots mine ta sell too."

'Go ta Central Park," I said indifferently.

"Fine, den, I will!" He stomped off.

I watched him go, a small, devious smile on my face. Then I ran to catch up.

"Whaddya want?" he growled as I fell into step beside him.

"Oh, nuttin'," I said airily. "Jus' didn' have nuttin ta do, so I thought I'd follow youse."

"Manhattan, go follow someone else!" he groaned, shifting the weight of papes on his him and glaring at me.

"Why would I'se bothah someone else when I can bothah youse?" I asked sweetly, enjoying the furious look on his face.

"Because youse feelin' uncharacteristically nice foah a change and will let me sell me papes in peace."

"Now how much o' dat statement do youse really and truly believe?"

"Go away."

"No, sorry, youse stuck wid me foah now."

Spot looked up at the sky. "Why me?" he wailed.

"So, have ya been ta Central Park recently? It really is lovely dis time o' year…"

"…and den Race got majorly mad and put soap in Mush's taters, and Mush was boipin' bubbles foah a week aftawoid. It was highly distoibin'."

Spot slammed his stack of papes down on a bench.

"Are you done?" he asked grumpily.

"Of course not, I haven't even gotten ta da good part yet. Did I tell ya 'bout da time Pie Eatah threw up at Jack's goin' away party? Dat was gross."

"I know," said Spot. "I was dere."

"You were?"

"Yeah."

"No, you weren't."

"Uh, yeah, I was."

"Nuh-uh. I woulda remembered youse bein' dere, cuz we woulda fought, and I cain't remember any fights."

"Well, I was. "Cuz I caught youse and Jack smootching behind da bar, remember dat?"

My breath caught in my throat. I felt a slow hot blush rise to my face. How dare he remind me of that?

"Struck a noive, did I?" he asked coyly. I didn't answer.

"Well, at least youse shut up," he muttered. He grabbed a couple of papes from the stack.

"I'se gonna go sell dese. You jus' sit heah an' take it easy. Don't do nuttin' rash."

I was dimly aware of what he was saying. I couldn't focus properly. That kiss with Jack had been my last one – he went off to Santa Fe the next day. And he took _Sarah _with him.

_Sarah_.

She wasn't even a bloody newsie. She couldn't punch to save her life. She wore _dresses_.

Bloody _dresses_.

Maybe that's why Jack took her. He couldn't stand the competition.

A sob rose in my throat, but I refused to let it escape. I had spent too long crying over him.

But I had loved him with all of my heart. I had thought he loved me too. I was supposed to be the one in Santa Fe with him right now. Instead, I was stuck here in bloody New York, with a broken heart, a broken arm, and a deranged Brooklynite.

The sob escaped.

"What's da mattah, prettyface?"

I froze in horror.

There was only one person in the world that that voice could belong to.

And he was sitting right beside me.


	12. Scarface Claw

Racetrack Higgins was sprawled across the old couch in the lodging house, fast asleep, his mouth open and his snores echoing through the empty room. Worn out from his hectic week selling papes, which had, incidentally, included an angry policeman, a snooty scab and an evil dog that had tried to take a large chomp out of a _very_ sensitive area, he had fallen asleep waiting for Light to get home.

The clock chimed eleven just as Spot burst into the room.

"Race! Race, wake up!" He shook the other newsie roughly.

"Wha'? Whassamattah?" Race spluttered groggily.

Spot ran his fingers through his hair distractedly, causing it to become even more tousled than usual. (**Female readers, please stop drooling, you'll ruin your computer)** Despite his lethargy, Race could see that the usually cool and collected Brooklynite was a nervous wreck.

"What's da mattah?" he asked again, this time with a hint of apprehension.

"I dunno where she is! She was wid me in Central Park one minute, and den _poof_! She's gone! What are we gonna do?"

"Spot, relax. She's fine," said Race, shaking his head to clear it.

"Youse seen her? She's alright?" Spot sagged with relief. "When did youse see her? Where's she now?"

"Last I saw her was arount four thoity on da cornah of Fifth Street. I dunno where she is now."

Spot looked at him shrewdly. "She cain'ta been on Fifth Street at four thoity, because at four thoity, she was wid me, tellin' me some dumb story 'bout you puttin' soap in Mush's taters, and dere is no way she coulda been in two places at once!" Half-hysterical, he ran his fingers through his hair again.

Race shrugged. "It shoie looked like Priscilla ta me. But I was –"

"RACE!" Spot exploded, causing Race to fall off the couch in surprise. "Ise am not talkin' 'bout Priscilla! It's ovah between us anyways! Ise talkin' 'bout Lightning!"

"What?" Race gasped from the floor. "Light's gone? You lost her?"

"Yes, I lost her!" Spot moaned, sinking onto the couch and running his hands through his hair again. "Or maybe she lost herself! Or maybe someone else losted her!"

"'Losted'?" Race asked.

"No, not losted, I meant stolen – kidnapped – oh no! Dis is all my fault!" Spot buried his face in his hands.

Race was shaken. Never before had he seen the King of Brooklyn lose it like this, especially over another human being, and especially over a girl he supposedly hated.

"Okay," he said finally. "Where didja last see her? She probably jus' wandered off an' got lost or sumpthin'."

Spot raised his head and gave Race an exasperated look.

"Er – or not."

"Light's not dat stupid. She knows Manhattan like da back o' her hand."

"Maybe she went ta Brooklyn."

"Why would she do dat? Anyways, Ise looked dere. I looked everywhere! It's no use! She's gone forever!" Spot wailed despairingly, clutching his hair.

"But, why would anyone wanta kidnap Light?" Race puzzled. "I mean, if she has really been kidnapped."

"Because she's a goil, because she's da leadah o' Manhattan, because she's a good pape sellah, because she's a pretty goil, because she's my friend and ally –"

Spot stopped and looked at Race, a horrified expression on his face.

"Oh no," he breathed. "What if…"

"Queens," Race finished, with an uncomfortable twinge of realization.

"Light…" Spot moaned, collapsing again.

My head hurt.

A lot.

It was dark.

Musty.

Scratchy.

Quiet.

Head hurt.

Where am I?

My eyes flew open. I was lying on a hard mattress in the corner of a small dark room. And there, right in front of me, was the crooked, leering smirk of the one and only Scarface Claw, the nefarious leader of Queens, known for his brutality with the switchblade.

"'ello, prettyface," he croaked, his raspy voice filling my ears and sending a chill down my spine.

I sat up slowly, trying not to let my fear show too much. I had never personally met Scarface Claw, but I had heard all the horrible stories from Jack and the other newsies. Abandoned as a small child, he ran wild on the streets of Queens, stealing food and fighting his way along. The streets had corrupted him, turning him into a monster, a twisted, sick, perverted monster who preyed on small children and young women. He had been caught four times for his crimes, but had always managed to escape at the last minute. Newsies everywhere feared him, sometimes to the point of insanity. It was hard to remain calm when I was the most scared I had ever been in my entire life. I would have gladly crossed the Brooklyn Bridge alone in the dead of night than have been in this situation.

"Wha's da mattah, prettyface?" he asked. "Are ya scairt o' da big bad Scarface Claw?"

Like I was going to admit that to him. Instead I opted for a cold glare which would have sent any other newsie running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. He, however, just laughed softly.

"I thought so. But you shouldn't be so worried, babyface. We ain't gonna use your pretty little hide foah nuttin' but bait." Still laughing softly, he left the room, and to my dismay, I heard the lock click behind him. Cursing him colourfully under my breath, I looked around. Besides the mattress, there was no other furniture in the room. What little light there was came from a small barred window high on the wall across from the door. I pushed the mattress over and climbed up to have a look. I could just barely reach it, and all I could see was a high brick wall. A wave of despair flooded through me. I sank onto the mattress, hoping against hope that someone had noticed my absence, and that help would come before it was too late.

**I know it sounds strange, but the name "Scarface Claw" comes from a kid's book called _Slinky Malinky Cat Flaps _by, according to my mom, Lynley Dodd. I thought it was the coolest name for a villain, and it freaked my sister out, so I'd like to use it but I give full credit for it to Lynley Dodd. Keep reading and reviewing!**

**-zumanity57**


	13. Evil Archnemesis? Nah

**Whoot whoot, we've made it 'til the end! Yes, this is the last chappie, folks! Enjoy, and I just want to thank everybody who reviewed a million times over!**

Spot, like any other New York-savvy newsie, knew where Scarface Claw's domain was. It was kind of hard not to. However, unlike his fellow newsies, Spot knew exactly where Scarface Claw himself was most likely to be.

Down one of the darker alleys, in one of the more dirty parts of town with the dodgier characters and larger infestations of rats and roaches, there was a small dingy bar, known only to a select few, and usually not the best-behaved or the most charismatic. It was here that the great Claw lurked most nights, surrounded by his cronies, large mugs of liquor and more girls than he had time for.

Spot was no simpleton, either. He wasn't fool enough to go into battle without a strategy of some kind. That is, if there was even going to be a battle.

Around 10:30 that night, Spot was to be found sitting in the shadows of the bar, hat pulled low over his eyes, a mug of ale in front of him, dressed in dark clothes and just near enough that he could hear what went on at Scarface Claw's table.

"Everything is set, boys," Scarface smirked. "Da goil is ours, da trap is set, now all we gots ta do is wait for dat woithless Brooklynite ta try ta rescue her, and Brooklyn and Manhattan are ours for da takin'."

'_Woithless Brooklynite,' huh? Well, dat 'woithless Brooklynite' just hoid all your plans, bucky_, Spot thought bitterly.

One of Scarface's smaller thugs twitched nervously. "B-but boss, w-what if sh-she esc-c-capes?"

Scarface laughed softly. "Fenjy, dere is no possible way ta get outta dat room. 'specially if youse a girl who ain't supposed ta leave it."

"B-but what ab-b-bout da w-window?" Spot listened closely.

Scarface waved a dirty hand carelessly. "What window?"

"B-boss, dere's a w-window on da n-north s-side o' da r-room," Fenjy said, uncertain of his boss's intelligence.

"It's actually on da wes' side, idiot," Scarface said lazily. "Plus it's too high up foah da shrimp, and Queens police headquarters are right on da oddah side."

_Shit_, Spot thought. Needless to say, he was _not_ on good terms with the Queens police. He was going to need _very _good backup for this operation.

Scrape…scrape…scr-IE-pe… 

I winced at the shrillness of the sound of my penknife on the glass of the window. I'd been trying to cut through it now for a few hours, and had managed to make a hole big enough for my hand to fit through. Scarface Claw and his cronies had left at 8:00, leaving cold, dark silence to fill the building. By the light filtering from the street lamp through the window, I was able to climb up onto the mattress again and begin scraping away at the window. Deep down, I knew it wouldn't get me far, but it kept me occupied and slightly sane. With every squeal of metal against glass, I hoped, wished, prayed, that somebody – anybody – would realize that I was gone and try to find me. I also remembered the oddest things. How Mush's ears stuck out. How Race's mouth always looked like it had a cigar in it, even if it didn't. How Jack used to smile whenever he looked at me. How Spot's eyes could go from dazzling, sparkling mischievous blue to dark stormy grey in a matter of seconds. How his mouth turned up at the corners when he smirked at me. How his hair fell across his forehead. How –

_Stop it_, I told myself firmly, trying to squash Spot out of my mind. _Dat's enough of dat_.

But as I continued scraping away, I couldn't suppress the image of his face that came to mind, which was, for some reason, upside-down.

"Light!" it whispered, a look of urgency etched across it.

Wait a sec. This was no vision. It was the real thing. Spot Conlon was hanging upside-down outside the window.

"Spot," I breathed, hardly daring to believe it. "Spot, youse here!"

"O' course," he said, with a hint of a smirk. "Can't leave a damsel in distress in – er – distress, now can't I? What would dat make me?"

I smiled. Same old Spot. Only nicer.

He grinned back, then sobered. "We'se gots ta get ya outta dere, quick."

"Bu' how?" I said desperately. "Dere ain't no way I'se gonna fit through dat hole."

"Ah," Spot said, smirking again. "Youse forgot who I'se got wid me. Boys, say hello ta Light."

"Hey, Light!" came Mush and Race's voices. "Youse okay?"

"Jus' dandy!" I called back softly.

"Quick, hand me da crowbar," Spot whispered. Race obliged.

"Jus' keep it quiet, will ya?" I said, straining my ears for any sound of Scarface Claw returning.

"Yeah, yeah," Spot muttered. "Don't have kittens."

He cautiously popped out a small piece of glass out using the crowbar. "Careful," he said, handing it up to Race.

They continued in this fashion, Spot breaking off pieces of glass and passing them up to Race, while I hissed at them to keep quiet after particularly loud pops. Spot yanked off the bars unceremoniously, while I tried (unsuccessfully) to muffle the sound with a cough. I breathed a sigh of relief when the last chunk had been removed.

"'Kay, dat's da best we can do," Spot said to me. "Youse'll hafta be caiful ya don't scratch youself when ya climb through." He handed me a rope. "Ready?"

"Ready," I said, gripping the rope tightly.

A few seconds and a few moans and groans later I was perched precariously on the windowsill, ideally situated to climb out. Spot had pulled himself back up onto the roof, but leaned over again to help me up. Just as my feet left the windowsill, I heard the unmistakeable sound of Scarface Claw and his cronies in the hall outside the room.

"Smith, whadja do wid da key?"

There was an indistinct mumble. Race, Mush, and Spot gave one last pull, and I was on the roof at last.

"Ya don't know? Ya _don't know_?"

More mumbling. We waited with bated breath on the roof. Spot, I noticed, hadn't let go of me, and was holding me rather tightly against his chest. I could feel his heart racing.

"Will someone find da goddamn key!" came a bellow from below. Spot's arm around me tightened, if possible, even more.

"Spot! Spot!" Race hissed. "We hafta get outta heah!"

Spot and I crept after Mush and Race as quietly as we could and began to climb down the fire escape, pausing every few seconds to make sure we hadn't been spotted. Luckily, Scarface was still arguing with his thugs, and the fire escape was on the south wall.

We had barely made it down when disaster struck. One of Scarface's guys had seen us.

"She's escaped, boss! She's flown the coop! Dere she goes!"

Mush, Race, Spot and I darted into a dark alley between two large buildings. We could hear someone yelling behind us, and the sound of many footsteps against the pavement filled the air.

"We'se gonna hafta split up!" Spot panted. "Don' take da direct route back ta da lodging house, just take 'em on a wild goose chase all ovah da city if ya hafta, bu' whadevah ya do, don' let 'em catch ya!"

"Take care, guys!" Race said hurriedly as he slipped off into the shadows.

"Godspeed." Mush followed.

I made to pick up my pace, but Spot caught my arm and pulled me back. Without warning, he pressed his lips against mine. A jolt of electric shock went through my body, and I could only gape at him in astonishment as he whispered, "Be caiful out dere, Light," and was gone.

A sudden clatter jolted me back into reality. Looking up, I saw Scarface Claw heading toward me.

"Shit," I muttered, and high-tailed out of the alley onto a dingy street lined with sorry-looking houses.

I ran as fast as I could, taking as many shortcuts and back alleyways as I could, and found myself staring at the massive structure of the Brooklyn Bridge. I couldn't see or hear Scarface anywhere, so I stopped in the shadows and tried to catch my breath. It was hard though, when every little whisper of sound caused me to jerk my head up in fright.

"Knock it off," I told myself sternly. "There's nothing there."

"There is now," a voice rasped in my ear, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground, staring up into the jeering face of Scarface Claw.

'Thought ya could outsmart me, huh?" he sneered. "Thought ya could escape from me? Well, guess what, pretty face, it takes more den dat ta trick me. Youse nevah even stood a chance." He was walking towards me now, an ugly look on his face. I backed away, bile rising in my throat. _Spot, please come…_

"No one's heah ta save ya now, ya pathetic excuse foah a goil," he spat. I backed up right to the side of the bridge.

Where are ya, Spot? 

"Come now, goil. Let's see what ya look like aftah a little swim." He grabbed my hair and yanked me up.

_I will not scream…I will not beg…I will go down strong…_

_Spot, where da hell are ya!_

Scarface pushed me up against the side of the bridge.

"Ah," he hissed. "If only dey could see da great Manhattan leadah now. Defenseless. Forgotten. Alone." He leered at me.

I faced him with all the courage I could muster. "But not yet beaten."

I spat in his face. He faltered, and I took the few precious seconds I had to bring my knee up, hard. He collapsed with a groan, and with a huge heave, I pushed him over the side of the bridge.

Trembling violently, I collapsed right there on the bridge. Dry sobs wracked my body. I felt numb. It was over. He was gone.

Strong arms wrapped around me, cradled me, held me close.

"Shhh," Spot whispered. "It's all ovah…"

I clung to him, feeling his erratic heartbeat and –

"Youse shakin'!" I said hoarsely.

"I thought ya were a gonah," he choked out. "Dunno what I'da done if he'da kilt ya."

"Ya woulda found somebody else ta pick a fight wid every two seconds," I mumbled against his shirt.

"Dat's jus' it!" he cried. "I don' wanna pick fights wid no one else. I only wanna fight wid you!"

With that, he closed the distance between us and buried my lips with his own.

And this time, I kissed him back like there was no tomorrow.

It looked like Spot and I were going to be 'fighting' a lot more often from now on…

FIN


End file.
